


bad decision making is a lifestyle

by Batty



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Insecurity, Memory Loss, Objectification, Sexual Content, That Trope Where A Weirdly Normal Relationship Happens In Abnormal Conditions, Up all night to get Bucky, Weirdness, cause Darcy's got issues of her own let's be real, of Bucky's rather objectifiable body, specifically Bucky's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1808869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batty/pseuds/Batty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Darcy Lewis finds herself dating the Winter Soldier without actually realizing he is, y’know, The Winter Soldier. And technically everyone’s still looking for him? Crazy shit, man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what even possessed me to write this, honestly. I think it was the devil.

Darcy would first like to make clear that one—she’s not the type of girl to go looking for sociopathic assassins.

Honestly, if she got her lady rocks off almost getting killed she would’ve enjoyed that whole invasion of London thing a little more. As it was, the point here is that she _didn’t_ realize her boyfriend used to be a sociopathic assassin and wow that really does sound a little crazy.

Second—she isn’t crazy. Really. Not a thing here.

Maybe she isn’t the paradigm of sanity, but hey. A life like hers does things to people. Gods dropping outta the sky means that normalcy is due a spring cleaning and Darcy is one of those people who focus on keeping the useful skills in life. Like coffee. And tazers.

Which brings her to the third point, relating to the fact she’s never actually had to use a tazer on the big lug--he was actually pretty sweet.

Winter soldier, James, Bucky, whatever. He had been sweet. Really sweet.

In a lost puppy, could probably bend press two of her kinda way.

Which did weird stuff to her mind, seriously, it was like he had a switch for her brain locked up in those biceps of his cause just one flex _just_ —

What?

She has a type.

But basically Darcy kinda doesn’t get the hype about him and his fists of fury, cause he’d seemed pretty damn harmless the entire time she was dating him.

Well. Y’know. Aside from the first time she met him.

.

.

.

“Sir, if you continue this I’m going to have to call the police!”

A clatter follows the outburst, at which point Darcy finally walks into the coffee shop at roughly one am.

Now, she doesn’t really make it a habit to caffeinate herself this late at night under the worst circumstances. But. She’s just finalized a three week move from across a damn ocean, went through the most immature of breakups, dealt with a _month_ of ignoring her boss’ alarmingly loud welcome back sex with her godly boyfriend and basically?

Darcy is due a damn iced latte. With whipped cream. Shot of caramel?

Mmmm, caramel drizzle.

“Sir!”

She also doesn’t make it a habit to interrupt a budding scene, but again, coffee. Frowning, Darcy peers forward to see the commotion. People graciously move out of her way, although probably less due to the graciousness and more due to the fact things look like they’re about to get ugly.

Ugh. These people’s ideas of ugly were so underwhelming. London exploding under your feet, now that’s a situation.

This?

This is a bit of a disappointment.

The guy at the register looks a bit freaked, probably something to do with the homeless looking other guy staring him into a puddle.

Darcy thinks for a moment, wonders what Jane would do.

Then strikes that out because Jane is currently discovering the wonders of the universe with her super boyfriend who has world class abs and comparing herself to that is a bad, bad road to go down. Mental health is important, guys.

So, Darcy does what Darcy would do and doesn’t think.

“Hey, daddy-oh,” she says, sliding up to the counter and flashing a winsome smile, “What’s cooking?”

Darcy isn’t sure who looks more annoyed, the cashier or the hottie in the leather.

She just keeps grinning because—hello, hottie in leather.

Without looking away and breaking eye contact from that rather impressive glare, she calls over to the cashier, “Yea, I’d like a latte, iced. Lotta caramel. Half the bottle. Thanks, babe.”

She ignores the guy’s spluttering and focuses on the real goal here. Hottie in leather. Anyone who knows her would cringe at the Cheshire grin that grows on her face. “So, what’s your story?”

He continues the glaring thing.

Darcy raises a brow. “C’mon, dude, I got like five minutes before this jerk realizes I jumped the line. Spill.”

Glaring thing is, unsurprisingly, continued. But apparently she underestimated the amount of time underpaid hipster café employees take to make a latte that’s half sugar because the jerk comes back just then.

“Here,” he spits, handing over the latte and darn. He didn’t even put any ice. Darcy pouts a little, looking away from hottie to mourn her lost, lost treat.

And of course, he chooses just that moment to speak up. “He won’t take my order.”

She refuses to believe that the shiver that goes down her back is due to him or his voice.

But damn.

That’s a straight up _lie_.

The cashier lets out a noise that she’s pretty sure is one of frustration but comes off as huffy. “I told you, it’s store policy. We can’t serve people like you.”

Darcy gingerly taps her coffee cup and thinks about how best to deal with this. She spares a thought for the Jane thing to do—call his manager and explain that just because you think a guy is homeless doesn’t mean you can refuse service to him—but she’s already established that her mental health is more important here.

So she throws her latte at him and runs.

Not without grabbing the hottie in the leather jacket’s hand, of course. First rule of fleeing, really, right behind make sure you’ll never be seen here again and aim for the throat.

Take the valuables.

She sprints out the door and to the left, dragging her stolen goods with her. To his credit, he only half tries to escape, apparently shocked still by her display of valiant bravery. For around five seconds.

She uses those beautiful five seconds to dash down half the block and into an alley, at which point he gains control of his senses and slams her up against the wall.

“Okay, okay, maybe that wasn’t the best idea,” Darcy says understandingly as he lifts her by her collar. A solid foot up. Huh. Pretty built under that jacket, wasn’t he? She eyes his muscles as they strain against the fabric and wonders what Jane would do in this sort of situation.

She draws up a blank because mental Jane is screaming that she’s an idiot and that isn’t very helpful here. Again, health.

“Who are you?”

Darcy is a pragmatist in times like this. “The lady that just saved your butt from an assault charge. Also, the lady that would really like to be put back on solid ground, thank you very much.”

Mental Jane is contemplating murder.

Hottie in leather also seems to be contemplating murder.

Darcy would still really like to be put down. “Like, now, if you could. I mean, I get you muscle guys like lifting shit but do I look like a pair of weights? Don’t answer that. And besides, I’ve met stronger hot homeless dudes.”

A couple long moments pass wherein Darcy is pretty sure she’s run her mouth one too many times. She’d regret it, but that kinda seems a dumb thing to do in your last moments. Regrets are a little people thing. Also stupid deaths. Like this one?

And oh god she’s actually gonna—

He puts her down.

She’s a little embarrassed by how her knees give out the moment she reaches solid ground, but he catches her. And as weird as it is to go from him holding her up against the wall and him holding her up from falling face down on the floor, context apparently matters and thoughts of muscles of steel and hotties in leather churn up again.

Clutching a fistful of said leather in her hand, Darcy breaths hard and talks fast, “So, now that we’ve properly introduced ourselves, how ‘bout some coffee?”

He tugs her up and stares at her again, this time like she’s crazy.

And, hey.

Darcy can deal with crazy. Flashing him a grin, she reaches out to tug him out the alley, “C’mon, there’s a place a couple blocks from here that—“

He doesn’t let her touch him, pulling away the moment her hand gets close enough.

Her smile falters, but she continues, “That serves really good coffee. And waffles. And I’m not normally a waffles fiend, but this place got some great reviews.” Then, because this can’t get awkward enough, she pauses. “…You coming?”

He’s still looking at her like she’s crazy, but he definitely nods and that’s a thing. A _good_ thing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woke up to ridiculous kudos response and y'all are crazy, seriously. Almost as much as Darcy, but let's be real, you gotta exert some real actual effort for that level of nuts.

Darcy calmly digs into three and half waffles across the table from a slightly homicidal hottie in leather and wonders what Jane would do.

Also, apparently said hottie takes his coffee full black. Like, no milk, no sugar, and strong enough to knock the Hulk out. Also give him major indigestion. Actually, can the Hulk even get indigestion? Does he eat people food, or does it have to be made special? Like super sized hulk-edible composed chunks or something.

And that was completely the wrong train of thought to take because now mental Jane is mental science-Jane and therefore completely useless.

It doesn’t help that she’s taken them to a diner, which means that social interaction is apparently a thing. A beaming waiter slides up to their table just on cue, as if sensing the awkward. “Would you two like anything else?”

Darcy waves the fast disappearing waffle half in the air and says, “Yea, can I get a couple more of these? And some syrup? Lots.”

He jots it down, apparently a veteran to the three am order. The waiter then turns to the vaguely menacing guy sitting across from her and asks, “And you?”

Darcy gives the waiter points for smiling where lesser mortals would run. Hell, she’s practically immune to intimidation and the hottie in the leather still sorta puts her on edge. Although that might be more raging hormones than anything else because _wow_ , did those arms look good. Wait.

Was waiter guy thinking those arms looked good?

No, seriously hold the phone, was hottie in the leather thinking that chipper smile looked good?

“I'm good,” he says, not even looking up at the waiter and it says something about how long Darcy has not had sex that she’s still worrying.

“Actually,” she cuts in, smiling up at the waiter and drawing his attention back, at which point she shifts her stance so her cleavage spills out a bit from the shirt that on woman a couple cups smaller would count as a scoop-neck but on her counts as obscene. And also pajamas. “I’d also like a refill on the coffee.”

And while waiter’s smile falters a little as his eyes bulge, hottie in leather doesn’t even blink. “Sure, I—I’ll be right back.”

For like, a second, Darcy wonders if she’s making a complete and utter fool of herself. Hot and homeless didn’t even twitch.

Fine. Boobs, level two, activating.

She yawns widely in a way she knows does glorious things to her chest and looks out of the window and _hello_ —

Quick glance.

Darcy jumps up and down on the inside. Also a little on the outside, if you count her foot. Hottie in leather is attracted to women, or at least to boobs. She can handle that. And maybe it’s the glee of the moment, or the thought that she’s definitely still got it, but the next words out of her mouth are, “So, tell me a little about yourself. For real this time.”

He narrows his eyes at her and she takes it as a cue. “Fine, I’ll start. Name’s Darcy Lewis, college dropout and once again student. Nice to meet you.”

She holds out her hand for him to shake, and thank the social decorum gods because he actually takes it. Darcy is spared the thrill of actually touching him by a thick pair of leather gloves, but she ignores it because _thick pair of leather gloves_.

Yikes. Even mental-Jane is a little disturbed by the things Darcy is thinking, but Darcy just shooshes the little scientist in her head and reminds her that those with _literal gods as boyfriends_ should not be throwing any kind of shade.

He still lets go of her hand too fast. And doesn’t say anything. She taps out a beat on the diner table with her stupidly tingling hand and thinks how best to go about this. “Y’know, I’m basically a complete stranger.”

He raises a brow, as if to say _no shit_. And yikes. The sass on him.

She goes on, tapping a little faster. “So, I’m the best person to spill out a life story to. You’ll never have to see me again!”

Darcy grins.

Hottie in leather looks unconvinced.

Darcy is beginning to sense a pattern here.

“C’mon dude, you know I’m right. I know I’m right. Plus, sometimes when things are bad, trusting a stranger is the way to go,” she continues, even as the waiter comes back with a too-wide smile and a plate of waffles. He places that and the syrup bottle before her while she flashes him a quick smile and completely misses the shocked look on the face of the man sitting across from her.

As Darcy’s thoughts are quickly taken up by glorious, glorious syrupy goodness, a rough voice suddenly cuts through them, “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Her head jerks up and a bead of the glorious, glorious syrupy goodness maybe trails down her chin. As she looks and feels rather ridiculous, the hottie across from her looks hot. Also a little lost.

And that, _that_ she gets a little.

Darcy wipes her face and says, “Well, let’s try the beginning. Where you from?”

He gives her a blank look. She wipes her chin again, just to make sure. “Sorry. Go on.”

Darcy watches him sigh, and wow. How does he make that hot?

“This isn’t gonna work.”

“Okay, let’s try the middle then. First off, why the angry?”

Cue glare.

“No, but seriously. Most people don’t really intimidate coffee shop employees for fun.”

And cue raised eyebrow and wait. Was that a smirk?

Darcy flushes a little and puts it down on the embarrassment. “Okay, I’m an exception. “

“Tell me ‘bout it, “ he mumbles and hey, there’s a hint of an accent there.

Darcy places it in seconds and grins again. So, he's a local? Filing that one away for later. “And it seems I can’t help intimidating a lot of people.”

“Yep. Nice freak out in the alley, by the way. Real cool.”

“I—sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“Nah, I’m fine. Takes a lot more than that to get to me.” He looks unconvinced. “Honestly, I’ve met freakier homeless weirdos.” Still unconvinced. But actually, this guy didn’t have nothing on Thor’s roaring and _‘Where’s my mewmew, I’m a jerky prince who got exiled!’_ mojo. Also, this guy has one hell of a beard.

Normally beards wouldn’t do it for her, but damn. This guy took scraggly and homeless to GQ levels.

“But anyway, about this someone else. Guessing it’s not a friend?”

His eyebrows knit. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

She tilts her head to the side. “You aren’t sure of much, huh?”

“Yea,” he sighs, and there’s that lost look again. It tugs a little on her heartstrings and Darcy, Darcy takes pity on him and does him the biggest solid she knows.

“Waffle?”

He stares at the breakfast food being jabbed in his face. She shakes it a little. “C’mon. It’s delicious syrupy goodness.”

A drop of said syrupy goodness takes this as cue to fall right on his shirt. White shirt. Oops.

“Oops,” she says aloud, just in time for the rest of the waffle to fall on his shirt. “Double oops. Let me just—“

As she tries to grab a tissue, the fork falls. “ _Ooh_. Bad move.”

And Darcy wishes there were a punch line to this, but the fact of the matter is that she’s in a diner with a hot man in leather at three am in the morning. And she just spilled waffles all over him.

Mental Jane snaps back just in time to wail to the stars.

Which is awfully hypocritical, seriously. Darcy feels like spilling food on a hot homeless guy is way better than running one over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at this point, you can probably guess what's going through Bucky's head. But just for kicks, hear me out. 
> 
> I kinda really wanted to write snarky-as-fuck Barnes, but I realized after watching the movie again that he really doesn't talk much?? Like, he's practically conditioned as a get-the-job-done-and-shut-up kinda dude. Is he gonna stay like that? Hell no. 
> 
> Darcy has a tendency to bring out the sass in people, and hopefully you guys will see him start giving back as good as he gets. For now, imagine ridiculously expressive eyes and vague thoughts of how to hide bodies when Bucky is looking at Darcy. Also boobs. Cause not even that much conditioning can take the libido from a WWII soldier.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darcy is a joy and a blessing to write pass it on

Darcy slurps her iced latte as a homeless man she just met follows her back to her apartment.

Well, sort of. If you wanna get into the _technical_ details here, she’d kinda invited him back.

She’d pretty much ruined his shirt—damn you syrup—and she’s not loaded enough to pull a Stark and pay for his dry cleaning. So, basement laundry machine it was. And she’s pretty proud of that basement laundry machine, despite its rather dented and near useless status. Sure, her neighbors have a tendency to steal stuff from there if it was left too long, but what's a little thieving between friends?

Besides, someone had left a really sweet Hawkeye t-shirt there yesterday. Long story short, Darcy finally found a superhero shirt that fit her. And with a couple well placed cut-outs, looks super great on her boobs. _Score_.

The building itself is a cruddy one too, cheap enough for her tastes but also apparently in a neighborhood that’s been run down for a while. Like, a _long_ while. Darcy forgives it because it was the only thing she could afford in the big city, post alien invasion or whatnot. And that says more about the city than the fact she hasn’t been paid in like, a year.

And as for the following her home part, hot and homeless is doing that cause _apparently_ skipping down the street in linked arms is a bit too _intimate_. Phooey.

“Still there?” she calls back, half expecting him to not be. Quiet little bugger, wasn’t he?

When there’s no answer, she peaks behind her, verifying that yes, there is a hot man in leather and waffle syrup trailing behind her like a lost puppy. And ooh. Puppy.

Darcy sort of blinks for a second as she grins stupidly at the idea of a homeless puppy in a leather jacket, which apparently gives said homeless puppy enough time to appear right next to her.

Like. Suddenly. Out of the blue. Literally blink and you miss it.

“Holy mother of—“

He’s frowning. “I know this place.”

Patting her impressive chest and trying to calm her also impressively racing heart, Darcy manages to force out, “Okay…breath in, breath out. Whoo. Sure know how to get a girl going. Yea, uh, this place was on TV a couple times. Y’know, one of the only neighborhoods or something that didn’t get demolished by that alien attack.” Blank look. “Y’know, the aliens? Fighting the Hulk? And Iron Man? Thor? Mewmew?”

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” he says and if he didn’t look so genuinely confused she wouldn’t have bought it.

“Okay. So you were living under a rock for a couple. Uh, catching up! Quick summary!” Darcy claps her hands and thinks. “Aliens invaded. The Avengers fought them off. Done!”

Still confused. And sporting a raised brow. Wow, he’s _good_ at the judging look. And he manages to make it a little hot, actually. It’s both reaffirming her sexuality and making her question everything else.

She clarifies, “Avengers? Iron Man with the flying and boom lasers, Black Widow with the suit and the thighs, Hawkeye with the arrows and those, uh, thing-a-ma-bobs, Captain America and—“

At some point during her rather impressive listing of the heroes she has lusted after at one point or another, a shadow passes over his face.

And then, “Yea, I remember them.”

“Oh. Good?” she stretches the word out a bit, cause honestly? He doesn’t look so good.

Just as she’s questioning her mental health and actually listening to the little scientist in her head, he speaks up again, “But that ain’t why I know this place. I’ve _been_ here before.”

He says it with a note of finality, and the realization hits Darcy so hard she starts grinning. Which causes him to look at her like she’s crazy again. Wow. Hell of a pattern. Or would it be helluva?

Shaking her head, she continues down the block and calls, “C’mon, Brooklyn boy. I’m not in the mood to watch the sun rise.”

.

.

.

It takes another half-hour or so of her beating a laundry machine in to submission before he asks, “Why Brooklyn?”

Seeing as how Darcy currently has soap suds in unmentionable places, she’s taken back. A little. It also causes the bottle of detergent she managed to steal from another machine to almost slip from her hands. This cues a couple more seconds of frantic juggling. When it’s firmly gripped and not likely to try to kill her, she says eloquently, “Huh?”

He’s leaning against a machine, all dark eyes and crossed arms and wow that should not look so hot. “Brooklyn. Why did you call me Brooklyn boy?”

“Uh, cause you’re from Brooklyn?”

Blank stare, old dear friend, she missed you so.

“The accent, dude.”

“It’s…a Brooklyn accent?” he asks slowly, as if turning the words over in his head to see if something clicks. “Yea, I guess so. “

Darcy is a little put out by how little he trusts her rather amazing accent-placing skills. "Dude, I know so. Used to have an uncle from here, and besides teaching me how to ace three card monty, I'm, like, super good at the placing voices thing. You're Brooklyn," and when she realizes how presumptuous she's probably being, adds, "I think."

It says something that he doesn't even shoot her one of his patent stares. Instead, his hair falls back and she can see his face crinkle in concentration. “I’m from Brooklyn. That's right. And I grew up...I grew up in Brooklyn, with—"

His voice grows stronger and stronger, until it suddenly cuts off.

The silence hangs.

Darcy can’t help the excitement building as she prompts, “With…”

“Nothing,” he replies, retreating back to that dark place in his eyes again. “It’s nothing.”

“Okay…But the offer of spilling your guts to a stranger is still on the table, just so you know,” she trails off, wishing vaguely that mental Jane was better with cryptic men than quantum physics. Also laundry machines. She needs a laundry machine expert in her life, and oh so badly. “Well, I think this bugger is ready to go, either way. All I need is for you to take off your shirt and wow I haven't said that in a...while...“

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

Thank you, God.

Thank you, _Thor_ , because really a body like that is more suited to Asgard than anywhere else.

Darcy stares and tries to pretend she’s not drooling. There’s only so much self-control a girl can have when a hot guy starts stripping in front of her. It’s not a full strip, cause yes, the leather jacket is off—and she kinda regrets that just a little—and the white syrup-mauled article of clothing is definitely off, but there’s still a long sleeved shirt hiding most of the goods.

Said long sleeved shirt is also so tight that it’s practically vacuum sealing the goods.

All thoughts of self control leave her.

“Ooh, muscles,” Darcy croons, reaching out to stroke his chest. And maybe she didn’t give him enough warning or something, although the slack jawed staring should’ve been his first clue, but he grabs her hand before she even gets close.  “Oh. No muscles.”

She maybe whimpers a little. Just a bit.

He’s still wearing those leather gloves, Darcy notices once it begins to become obvious he isn’t letting her hand go. Letting the potential embarrassment slide off her—water off a duck, man—she looks up at him and hopes it isn’t homicidal intent he’s staring back at her with.

It’s not.

“Who are you?” he asks again, in a voice not so demanding this time. Darcy tries to answer, she really does, but she gets lost in this little thing called his eyes and the way they were taking her apart.

And it’s not it’s just cause he’s hot, cause while he totally, _totally_ is, Darcy doesn’t really make it a point to stare dumbly at people’s faces just cause they're attractive. Well, sometimes. But this time, this time it’s different.

He looks lost.

Just, really, really lost.

Like he’s _genuinely_ waiting on her to answer his question, to give him the one thing that will help him figure it out, figure _him_ out.

He’s looking at her like she has something he needs.

And Darcy is all about the giving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the next chapter the rating comes into play, with a host of other issues. Also there's only like two chapters left to this prologue and then we have Darcy figuring out her boyfriend is a contract killer in the best way possible aw yeaaaa


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a way longer update, which is good cause it'll take me some time to fix up the next chapter. That next chapter is also the last one in the 'prologue' so fun shit man

They barely make it through her door before he’s tugging her shirt off, a job make harder still by her incessant pawing at his chest.

Again, a _type_.

“Muscles,” she croons as she manages to slip a hand under his shirt, a rather impressive feat given how vacuum packed the thing was. And wow. Wow. Darcy wants to cry a little with how ridiculously built this guy is.

Also, good with the forethought, cause he manages to close the door behind her before one of her nosy neighbors files another noise and obscenity complaint. Darcy decides to reward him by leaning up and kissing him, harder than the soft brushes he’d been teasing her with on the stairs up. His beard is a little weird and scratchy, but she’s made out with guys sporting jaw warmers before and adjusts quickly. For a second he doesn’t react and she freaks out just a little—wouldn’t it just make her stupid week to get a guy in her apartment only to get the ‘maybe-we’re-going-too-fast’ talk?

Then he hauls her up like a sack of fucking potatoes and suddenly Darcy is getting well and thoroughly kissed against the door of her new apartment. She wants to sing a church hymn or something, but she settles for moaning her appreciation. Which may be sacrilegious. But hey.

His hand snakes under her shirt and it really amazes Darcy how the guy can multitask holding a girl up and doing that thing with his tongue, but then he adds that thing with his fingers and she stops being amazed and starts believing in god.

She has to break away from the kiss just to moan, arching into the attention he’s paying her breasts. His mouth makes good work on her neck and there’s a moment where Darcy just sits back and thanks the world and its hot homeless men. Seriously, this is fucking great. And they didn’t even get to the fucking part.

And Jane said talking to strangers and assaulting other strangers never led to anything good.

She’s so caught up in the wonderful heat of his mouth on her collar and, again, that _thing_ he did with his tongue, that the coolness against her side takes a moment to register. Darcy only peeks down for a second, half dazed from the heat thrumming under her skin. A flash of metal. Then, “Huh.”

His breathing suddenly gets really slow, as if about to pull away.

What?

Oh, hell no.

Darcy vetoes the brief curiosity on the shiny his arm was sporting and throws her arms around his neck, pulling him in for another kiss. He’s cool to it at first, but she just kisses harder. When she’s forced to part because of air reasons, she says, “Bed. Other room. Now.”

She’s rather sure that sums things up nicely. He seems to feel the same, despite the lingering hesitation the metal arm takes as it brushes against her stomach. Darcy smiles as she prepares to be let down, only to let out a small yelp as he simply picks her up and starts towards the back room.

Oh. She could get used to this. So, _so_ used to this. 

She says as much, and takes the amused look he shoots her in stride, in a matter of speaking. Darcy is happy to report that no walking of any kind was done, and that the next time she feels the terribly effect of gravity she is bouncing on the bed, grinning like an idiot.

“Hey, so, can I sign you up for piggy-back rides? Pretty sure you could make some good money with those,” she informs him, staring rather pointedly at his arms.

When exactly had he taken his shirt off? Oh, who cares. Shirt is _off_. Muscles are _out_. Darcy is _happy_. Although...hot and homeless doesn't seem to share the sentiment.

She watches a quick myriad of emotions flash through his face, wondering how someone so closed off could have such expressive eyes. Seriously. Darcy counts like ten in that second she caught him off guard, confusion being like seven of those emotions. Distrust being another two.

And for a second she’s a little offended. The guy is in her room, packing muscles she’s never even heard off—still rather fully clothed, might she add—and he’s looking at her like she’s the biggest threat he’s ever seen. Like _she’s_ dangerous. In any other case, Darcy would be majorly offended.

But that next emotion in his eyes makes her pause. She watches him for a second, noting how his eyes light up as he takes her all in. And—and Darcy doesn’t quite recognize that emotion.

She isn’t sure she wants to, because something clenching in her chest tells her it’s a sadder story than she can take. And that really isn’t the point of what’s going on right now. It’s not. She isn’t trying to take advantage of a random homeless dude, or get off on the nearest vulnerable hot man she sees, honestly. Well, a little getting off, but that comes later.

But here, Darcy knows that she’s only trying to be what he needs.

A distraction.

The art of stripping out of a shirt practically adhered to your skin is an old one, and Darcy considers herself an expert. The scoop neck is no exception. A little wiggle room and bam—instant boobs. She’s rather sure she could do a youtube tutorial.

Smiling as sincerely as she can, Darcy slides closer to him. His eyes are shuttered now, tracing her skin and so dark that she doesn’t even have to try to make out the emotion in them. It only intensifies as she drags a hand across his chest, purposefully not pausing on the injunction between skin and steel. He leans in closer, thick arms bracketing her between them. The bed squeaks under his weight and she smiles wider. Her neighbors are gonna be filing so many complaints after tonight, and Darcy, Darcy isn’t even sorry.

This is breaking in an apartment at its best, really.

The thought simply strengthens when the corner of his mouth twitches at the sight of her beaming face. She barely has time to cup his arousal through his jeans—and wow, just wow, Darcy has like twelve things to say and five of them aren’t even words—before he’s pressing down on her, hot and intense and _needy_.

And Darcy is truly, honestly, a giver.

So she gives as good as she gets, matching hungry kiss for kiss, arching desperately when his mouth makes its way down. She’s a little embarrassed about the dumpy looking bra, but the world was rarely punctual when it came to ‘gonna-meet-a-hot-dude-at-two-am-coffee-run’ alerts. Either way, it ends up not being an issue because he manages to mouth a nipple through the material, sending a rather strange whimper through her mouth.

Holy shit. Holy shit, _wow_ ,

He leaves a wet spot when he moves, and she scrambles to remove the bra because a mouth that talented she needs  _on_ her. Like, _now_.

Darcy also manages to kick off her pants, because she’s talented like that. It’s obvious now just how hot things are getting, cause the cool of his hand feels amazing tracing against her thigh. She tugs on his pants rather desperately, pouting at the resistance.

Only then she realizes that _ha_ , there's a _belt_ , and she is officially the most hormonally nearsighted woman in existence. Another title she’s rather proud to put on her resume.

The pants disappear quickly after that, only for her to freeze at the pressure of his hand between her thighs. _“Ohshityes—“_

Things start to blur together after that, a self-feeding circuit of pleasure from his mouth on her chest to his fingers deftly extract pleasure from the bundle of nerves between her legs and Darcy has never been eloquent, never, but there’s not being eloquent and then there’s screaming, “Fuck, fuck, holy mother of— _fuck!”_ when she comes. Her toes curl and she can just claw at his shoulders for some kind of grounding as she slowly comes down.

Panting hard now, Darcy stares at the rather smug looking asshole leaning over her, thanking Thor one more time and also mental-Jane, for giving her advice she always feels compelled to go against.

She shoots him a grin as he adjusts himself, not as smug as he could be with the rather impressive erection he’s sporting. Giving him barely a second to finish, she winks and slowly sits forward.

There’s a moment of resistance again when she’s pushing against his chest, but only a glimmer of the shadow from before, he leans back and lets her straddle him. Darcy clicks her tongue and says, “My turn.”

His hair is sort of hanging over his face at this point, so it’s harder to catch his expression, and doubly harder to verify that it is, in fact, a smile he’s wearing. Darcy puts it down as a tie and rolls her hips in revenge, grinning harder when he bucks up. Also moaning a little, because _damn_ that felt good.

It almost makes her forget that this is most likely going to be a one night stand with a complete stranger, but mental-Jane screams loud enough that it breaks through whatever hormone induced haze had taken over.

“Oh, crap, protection,” she starts, thinking fast. Then her eyes fall upon the bedside drawer, and bingo. “Okay, could you grab the condom in there? Top drawer, probably, and, oh wow, “she finishes eloquently, staring in wonder at the way his arms flex as he reaches over without getting up.

Part of her wants to take a picture, and the other part is currently realizing something strange. Is he always this obedient? The coffee. The café. The laundry. She’s been dragging him around for a while, with no complaint. Well, not _no_ complaint, but still. The thought runs confused circles in her head, up until the point when the crinkling of the wrapper jolts her back and hello.

Darcy pushes such thinking away until after she deals with the insanely hot homeless man laying naked under her. Priorities.

He’s quiet as she guides him in, but his fingers damn near dig into her hips. Darcy steadies herself on his ridiculously built chest, only pawing a little as she rocks back and forth trying to find a rhythm. Aw, who is she fooling, she paws a lot. That’s a whole lotta muscle and she’s so damn ready to put it to good use.

And she also takes the chance to brush his hair back, breath hitching a little at the look in his eyes. She really can’t be blamed for the next kiss, or how the wet sound of their lips parts sends another jolt down her spine and wow she really needs to start moving.

It’s slow at first, because even though Darcy had just gotten out of a breakup, the last time she had good sex was way longer than the last time she had a boyfriend. Stupid intern. It says something when even the adrenaline driven ‘we-almost-died’ sex ain’t that good. And augh, now she’s thinking about how bad the breakup was and stupid—

As if sensing the slow decline of her thoughts, the hands on her hips start sliding up her sides. It starts up a delicious shiver that Darcy feels down to her toes, and right. She’s the distraction here. Despite her earlier eagerness, a pang erupts somewhere in her chest. What if—

There’s a brush against her neck and Darcy looks down just in time to catch the look on his face before he kisses her again. It’s—it’s still confusion, but—curious?

She ponders over it for a second as his beard pokes against her chin, as well as how on earth she was going to explain the inevitable carpet burn looking redness her face was gonna be sprouting. Then he does that thing with his tongue, and wow.

The pace suddenly picks up and she’s gasping, her thighs burning with exertion as she slides against him. His calculated thrusts help, but she’s bracing herself harder and harder against him as the pleasure starts to coil and her mind scrambles. Part of her picks up on the fact that he’s saying something, and another part picks up on the fact that it’s not exactly English, but both parts shut up as his mouth finds her breasts again.

Then his hand—holy shit could those things be classified as weapons—moves between her thighs and _just the right spot_ —

And Darcy is gone. Like, seriously gone. Screw non-eloquence, she can’t even form words. She’s also rather sure she screamed a little, digging her fingers into his arms as she fell apart. He comes soon after, thrusts growing frantic until he spills over with barely a grunt, quiet compared to her.

A pleasant boneless sensation takes over her then, and Darcy groans as she sinks forward. Could she just stay like this? She nuzzles closer against his neck, avoiding the beard. His hands are far too gentle as they slide against her back, kneading the tension like an expert.

Oh god, a hot muscled man who could handle other people’s muscles. She’d beg him to take her, but that part seems to have already been done. So she just hums her enjoyment, taking her time as she rolls of him and to the admittedly more comfortable bed.

Muscles are great and all, but nothing beats a soft bed. She’d splurged when she moved, knowing that with how small the place was, she’d be spending most of her time on the mattress. She grins at the double entendre now, all of twelve years old. Heh.

He turns with her, sharp eyes flitting over her body like he’s analyzing something. Darcy manages to smile weakly, still catching her breath as she tries to make sense of his expression. Something strikes her then, and she almost smacks her head in obviousness.

Oh, who is she kidding. She totally _does_ smack her head in obliviousness.

“Your name!”

Darcy isn’t usually like this. Seriously. Not that there’s anything wrong with being like this, but Darcy has very few self—inflicted limitations on the guys she sleeps with and the name thing? Usually a big one.

And here she is. Afterglow with a dude who is, surprise, surprise, nameless.

He raises a perfect brow at her start and wow, Darcy doesn’t even know how that look of Jane’s got onto his face. Is there a patent out? The ‘Darcy-really-are-we-having-this-discussion’ look. Coming soon to stores near you.

She smacks him on the arm and almost laughs at how affronted he looks. “Shut it, I’m being serious. I just had fabulous sex with a guy whose name I don’t even know.”

The cocky look comes back, and she smacks him again, knowing which part of the sentence he's stuck on. “I mean it!”

She doesn’t really expect him to tell her his name, not actually, so Darcy is surprised at the next low rumble that leaves his mouth.

“James.”

Darcy blinks in weird sort of surprise, but shrugs it off. Eh. She wouldn’t peg him as a James, but whatever. At least it isn’t John Smith. And besides she’s already slept with the man and wow, did she want to do that again. Although little chance of that happening, right? “Okay, got it. Just to reiterate, I’m Darcy.”

“Yea, Darcy Lewis, college dropout and once-again student,” he parrots back, and that is _totally_ a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. Stupid sass. Always biting her in the ass. And that thought brings a whole bunch of other thoughts forward, so Darcy just rolls her eyes and sits up.

In doing so, she gets in impromptu show of the hot homeless man in leather apparently named James. Or more specifically, his rather impressive tableau of scars. Slowly, the pieces in her mind start to slot together.

“When'd you get back from your tour of duty?"

He looks at her, his eyes wary. She realizes suddenly how presumptuous she’s being. One night stands usually didn’t come with an interrogation. But that stupid pang in her chest comes back, and Darcy realizes suddenly she really, really wants to know. But he doesn’t look about to answer.

She curls into herself, hugging a pillow from beside her closer. Her voice is a little quiet, “You can tell me, y’know. I almost majored in psychology and I used to walk dogs. I’m a great listener.”

Again, she doesn’t expect him to answer. There’s a moment of silence where she’s pretty sure he isn’t going to.

Then, “It isn’t really the kinda story anyone should hear. Much less someone like you.”

Ouch.

Darcy has been told to mind her own business before, but never quite like that. Being underestimated is just a way of life, really. “Oh. Okay,” Darcy says quietly, turning away.

James stops her, arm snaking around her waist and dragging her in, his face pressing against her bare stomach.

“Not like that. I just…I just don’t wanna ruin this,” James admits, beard tickling her hip, and he sounds so sincere she can’t even bring herself to hold a grudge. Darcy knows how these things go. One night stands that aren’t supposed to go anywhere, so you make sure not to leave too much of yourself with that other person. Ruined the distraction.

“Okay,” she whispers again, just as he tugs her even closer, hand cold on her stomach, and buries his face against her thigh. “Just saying though, no pressure on anything.”

Only the scratch of his beard and the quick press of lips against her knee answers her, and Darcy just watches as a man just barely holding himself together takes his comfort. The metal arm looped around her waist is still cold, somehow resisting the heat from their frantic activity just minutes before. She shivers a little as the moment drags on.

The silence doesn’t last for long, as his refractory period turns out to be nothing less than fucking amazing and his mouth trails upwards for another round. She eagerly throws herself back at the seemingly endless tide of need. Cause really, Darcy is a giver at heart.

.

.

.

Things get a little fuzzy after that. Long story short, he doesn’t leave that morning. Or afternoon. Or, as several interesting looking bruises on her collar attest to, the night after.

He also kinda stays for the next five months. Whoops.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo this ended up being longer than I thought, and the chapter eventually had to be split up. Expect the next part before the end of the week guys
> 
> also, like, I swear that the confrontation scene is coming up 
> 
> /swear/

It’s not like Darcy anticipated the whole staying for a while thing.

Hell, she didn’t even think he’d stay the _morning_.

In fact, Darcy had woken up and been damn near sure of it. The first treacherous piece of evidence being that the bed was empty, the second being that her feet were cold. The former had been a nail in the coffin, and the latter the dirt over it due to several interesting revelations regarding hot homeless men named James and cuddling.

That being that they were total cuddlers.

She had only just barely held back an  _awwww_ last night with a grin as he’d fallen asleep nuzzling her collar. Such a puppy. Then he’d shifted and her grin had widened. Hello, rock hard abs, blessed be your form.

Until the form had left. With the homeless puppy.

Darcy sighs a little once it all sinks in. Of course he’d woken up before her, which is never a new thing—Darcy doesn’t really believe in sunrises, or single numeral morning hours for that matter—and of course he’d made a clean getaway before the awkward goodbyes set in. She’d have done the same, or so she tells herself to get rid of that stupid painful lump in her throat.

Darcy swallows and pushes down what lingering regret she has, reminding herself that it wasn’t ever meant to mean anything. He was a guy looking to forget, she was a gal highly adoring of his muscular structure.

One cheesy pop ballad and a steamy bedroom scene was all that kind of setup got. And heck, she hadn’t even gotten the pop ballad.

Before she can bemoan the lack of pop in her ballad, there’s a noise from the kitchen.

Darcy tenses up.

Then throws herself to the side and grabs her tazer from the top drawer of her bedside table. What? She keeps all the important things close together.

The racket intensifies, and she quickly tugs on a robe before investigating. Darcy has never been part of a home invasion before and she’s not about to start now. The whole New Mexico thing rankles her, and she still has half a mind to call Thor up and get him to give her the head jack-booted-thug’s number.

And dammit, she’d only just gotten all her stuff out of the suitcases. No two-bit city thief is gonna ruin her damn awesome unpacking skills.

Already mentally composing her statement to the police _—“No, officer, I had no idea that tazers are illegal here. Seriously. What, you’re taking me in? Well, lemme just—shit! Okay. Okay. If I said I didn’t know running from the law was illegal would that help? No? Shit.”—_ she steps into the kitchen, ready to kill someone and run from the police.

Then she drops her tazer in the floor.

Well, fuck.

There is a hot man in her kitchen, buck-naked and making her breakfast. Darcy doesn't even know which god to pray to. He turns around and she settles for praying to all of them. _All_ of them.

Especially Thor, hallowed be his muscled name.

And see, there’s a moment where she doesn’t quite recognize him. But then it hits her.

_James_. Without the beard. And holy fucking shit he is _gorgeous_ —

Bearded homeless man had it’s own charm, but this? Wow. _Wow_. Darcy maintains that this opinion of his bare face is in no way influenced by the fact he’s naked when she first looked at it, but wow.

And he looks strangely nervous about it too, which gives credence to her earlier thought that it’s been a long time since he was clean-shaven. His body language is confident—and of course it would be, with all of _that_ —but his eyes peek out a little, fixed on her reaction.

Which is, in keeping with all of their interactions, eloquent.

“Holy shit, _are you for real—“_ Darcy blabbers, her gaze falling from his face downward and fuck. Fuck those muscles. She would personally like—no, _love_ —to fuck those muscles. The whimper that leaves her lips as she checks out his lower anatomy is also downright pathetic. Part of her is a little disappointed when she realizes he’s not quite completely naked—stupid _towel_ —but the rest of her is captivated enough. More than enough.

She barely collects herself in time to catch the quick smile that flits across his face, an apparently trademarked ‘you are ridiculous and I am amused’ hot homeless man expression.

“I borrowed one of your extra razors, if that’s okay,” he says, turning back to the stove. Darcy drools a little at the sight of his back. She’d seen _medical textbook diagrams_ like that before during her brief pre-med stretch, which was a dark time for all. Except for right now, as the resemblance is quite illuminating.

“Yes,” she says a little breathlessly, only just listening, “Totally okay. So, completely, totally okay.” She watches his shoulders shake a little with what she first thinks is anger, but quickly realizes is very, very suppressed laughter.

And the stupid thing is, something in Darcy melts at that. The idea that this guy has to turn around and look away just to laugh. God, it _hurts_ a little too. And the weird wiggling in her stomach acts up again, combining with her completely rational and overwhelming lust and basically—Darcy wants.

A very sane glint in her eye shines as she steps forward, already untying her robe. He doesn’t seem to notice, reaching up and pulling his hair into a ponytail with a hair tie that she belatedly realizes is hers. From last night. And fuck if he doesn’t wear it better.

Darcy is now fully contemplating pre-breakfast sex and wait no are those waffles?

After verifying that those are indeed blueberry waffles Darcy changes pre-breakfast hot man in the kitchen sex to post breakfast syrupy thank you hot man in the kitchen sex. Her course beelines straight to the table, where she wastes no time in shoving the confection in her mouth.

Part of her distantly realizes the need for cutlery, but that part shuts up at the taste of waffles. _Good_ waffles. “Oh my god, what planet are you from?” Darcy moans, wondering if he’s more extraterrestrial than she first thought. She’s considering Thor-like godhood at this point.

“Brooklyn,” he answers cheekily, and Darcy would retort something but then she’s taking another bite and reaching orgasmic levels of happiness.

“There are blueberries in this. You put blueberries in this. I don’t even have blueberries,” she starts rambling, resting her face against the cool and _clean_ table as she takes it all in.

He’s here. He didn’t leave, he’s here, and morning sex looks to be in the future.

It wasn’t just a one night stand.

Darcy kinda hates how much she’s smiling right now. James seems to have finally finished whatever he was cooking on her shitty little stovetop, and she watches him strut forward. Not just walk. _Strut_.

She only realizes the reason for it as he sets down the most beautiful omelet she’s ever seen on the table. With toast on the side. Buttered. Darcy looks up to catch his only barely restrained smug grin. Part of her is quickly reminded of just how hot he is and how much she truly, deeply wants him in her—but breakfast. _Breakfast_.

She inhales it, practically. Darcy hates how good it is, because then she can’t stop eating and that only delays how soon she can fuck this man but damn— _damn_.

He eats his own, of course, a rather toned down scrambled eggs and black coffee. It’s only when she compares the two meals does she realize what he’s doing.

He’s trying to impress her.

And fuck. The stupid wiggling insides thing starts up again.

Darcy moans again as she finishes, way too fast and with way too much to process. “How can you even cook like this?”

To her surprise, James actually answers. “Learned when I was growing up."

"You learned. This?" Darcy is contemplated satanic rituals.

He smirks, as if reading her mind. Which, please no. Darcy's mouth is bad enough at keeping the thoughts in. She's pretty sure she'd get arrested if someone could actually see all of them.

"Yea, I had to. Started with some basic stuff, then worked my way up."

Sanity returning, Darcy picks up on the hint. “How many?”

He blinks once, the apparent homeless hottie indicator to explain. And fuck it’s even worse now that he’s clean shaven and seriously hot and _cool it Darce—stay chill—_

Her foot jitters a little as she responds, “Uh, I mean, did you have siblings? I mean, I didn’t have any but I had friends, who uh, did. Apparently you either learn to cook or get really, really good at takeout. Personally, I’m the latter, but I don’t really have excuse for that. Yep.”

James doesn’t cut her off during her rambling, instead looking strangely thoughtful. There’s a brief pause where Darcy contemplates stabbing herself with the fork, but then, “One.”

“One what?”

“Brother. A long time ago,” he answers and judging by the shrouded look that passes his face, that’s the end of the conversation. Of course, like its reluctance to listen to mental-Jane, her brain doesn’t quite get the memo.

“I’m sure he’ll forgive you,” comes from her mouth courtesy of a brain-lips filter that was apparently broken at birth. “If he hasn’t already.” She can see the sudden strain of his arm, but _she can’t stop_. “Family’s with you till the end of the—“

He slams the mug of coffee down on the table and Darcy shuts up. She supposes that it’s a secret talent; being able to intimidate people without actually spilling a drop of liquid caffeine. Except it’s not fear that stays her mouth.

It’s shame.

Wishing very much for that fork, Darcy lets stares back at James’ dark, shuttered eyes and lets the emotion bleed in. He’s impassive again, and she’s not quite sure what he’s thinking anymore. Is he mad? Probably. Heck, she’s mad at herself.

Because as open, as _calm_ , as he had been just moments ago, James is the opposite now.

“Sorry, just—let’s not talk about this. Not now. Please,” he says lowly, the last word added on as if to assuage someone other than him. His eyes slowly drag from hers to the table and then don’t even meet hers as he finishes off the rest of his coffee, quick and like the liquid wasn’t around a hundred and ten degrees.

Darcy bits her lips and thinks about what to do to fix this.

She gets an idea the moment her eyes land on his bare chest. Well, several ideas, but only one that would actually help right now.

Darcy leaps to her feet, jolting the man across from her, but she ignores it and rushes off to the bedroom. Later she wonder exactly why he’d had a knife in his hand and where he’d gotten that knife, but that came later and with much prodding from mental Jane. The boxes on her floor are of more importance.

See, when Darcy said she’d unpacked, she kinda meant the important stuff. Like tazers and underwear and junk. She may have a couple more boxes left. Only a couple. It’s a bit of a challenge weaving through the mess in the corner, which raises some questions on how James had managed to do so last night while in the dark and carrying her, but she manages. Sort of.

The bottom of her robe snags on her lamp and nearly topples the thing over, but quick reflexes end up saving the day. And her only source of reading light. Darcy absently pushes the offending gaudy lamp further from the edge of the desk, ignoring how it still wobbles when she passes.

Nudging aside the box containing her pants—damn things—Darcy reaches for the itsy bitsy one in the back, labeled ‘shit and giggles’.

She only has to rummage for a few seconds before finding them. “Ha! Take that, packing gods.”

Darcy is back in seconds, proving both her fifth and eleventh grade gym teachers wrong. She’s a sprinter, really, not a stick to it and run kinda gal. With the bruisers on her chest, she couldn’t really keep any kind of pace up without serious ouch happening. There’s no problem with that now, and she’s a little flushed when she races back in, holding her trophies aloft. “Here you go.”

Darcy disavows all hoarder tendencies she may or may not have, but also she has like a closet full of her ex boyfriend's stuff and wow, that stuff comes in handy. The shirt and baggy pants being some of them. Some pretty sweet Beetles records being more. But it’s the clothing that James is looking at now, making this weird expression she’s beginning to associate with him being surprised. _Pleasantly_ surprised.

“…Is that for me?”

“Well, yea,” she says simply, wondering if this was a bigger fuck up. “I mean, as much as I love your look right now, I’m pretty sure I left that shirt of yours in the laundry room and yea. Gone by now. So…I figured you might want something else?” It comes out as more of a question than anything else, but Darcy is a little thrown by the way he’s looking at her now.

She also realizes suddenly that she forgot to tie her robe back up again before vaulting over several obstacles and that physics, tricky bastard that it is, seems to have an interest in her flashing the first guy she’s slept with in almost a year.

Said guy doesn’t seem to be minding much.

Darcy watches his eyes go from strangely contemplative to openly hungry, tracing down from the offered clothing to the open gap in her robe where her two most favorite things in the worlds are spilling out like there’s no tomorrow. A shiver runs down her back as he slides out of his chair, slowly, like his previous strut has evolved into a well-practiced prowl.

Now, in most situations Darcy would be so totally part of this whole buildup thing. Hell, she’d probably be peeling off her robe and throwing it to the corner like the world grade pitcher she never was. She’s never been one to take the backseat on anything, and especially not sex, but right now—

He’s smiling.

Smirking really, but there’s more than just lust in his eyes, there’s honest appreciation and a sort of _calmness_ that wasn’t there yesterday and—

“Yea,” James breathes, “I might want something else.” And that’s pretty much all the warning Darcy has before he’s kissing her again.

The intense _need_ from last night seems to have disappeared, replaced with a saner, slower build up that has her toes curling. Darcy whimpers a little into his mouth as his hands move her robe away, letting the offered clothes drop to the floor. Every move of his is cocky, a surety in his motion that _wasn’t there_ _yesterday._

It’s like he’s a different person. Darcy kisses back as good as she gets, ignoring the small voice in her mind that said something was wrong. A heady moan escapes her lips once his hand slips between her thighs. Dammit, he’s good. And while it boggles the mind how a guy can go from broody and closeted to grinning and doing _that_ with his fingers, she isn’t one to complain.

In fact, she’s rather bent on enjoying this.

Another kiss and Darcy all but forgets the whispering in the back of her brain.

But then something explodes in her bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> real question here--where did Bucky get the stuff to make any of that? Then answer is of course super spy antics and the fact that while some people knock on neighbors doors to ask for a cup of sugar, others simply skip the knocking part.


End file.
